


Potrait in Red

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, International Stories, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-07
Updated: 1999-11-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser finds a reminder of Meg.





	Potrait in Red

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    DISCLAIMER:  There once was a big company named Alliance who owned this
    nice little show called DUE SOUTH.  There once was a fanfic writer who
    liked to play with the characters of said show.  This writer didn't make
    any money from playing with these nice characters, so Alliance said "let
    it be so."  There was benevolence and everyone lived happily ever after.
    
    NOTE:  Old Jake is a real guy, he does actually speak like that, and
    he's pretty cool too! The Duck Lady is also quite real.  :)  As a native
    of New Orleans, I must stress... WE DO NOT HAVE A SOUTHERN DRAWL OR A
    PARISIAN ACCENT!  Sorry, just got finished watching Heaven's Prisoners...BLECH!
    
    SPOILERS:  Mask, COTW
    WARNINGS: angst...I REFUSE to issue a Thatcher warning!  I'm a die-hard
    Meg fan. SETTING:  post-COTW, probably about 5 years later
    
    Portrait in Red
    
    copyright 1999 by M. Megan O'Neil 
    
    	Fraser took in the scenery around him with the eyes of the newborn.
    Growing up in the wilderness of Inuvik, he was awed by the vibrant color
    and decadance of this cosmopolitan city, even though he had read many
    books about it.
    	He walked around Jackson Square, his senses picking up the pungent smells
    of seafood, bodily fluids, incense, and alchohol.  He heard the gutteral
    slurred speech of the natives and saw the contrast of the garish, colorful
    street performers and the commanding elegence of the aged architecture.
    Even Chicago did not have this combination of sophistication and earthiness,
    though Ray Vecchio would probably vehemently disagree.  He smiled at
    the thought of his friend in one of his Italian tirades. 	Dief padded
    beside him, whining in complaint.  Fraser turned and looked at his furry
    companion.  "Yes, I know it's hot.  It's not actually the heat, it's
    the humidity." The wolf growled in annoyance, flicking his tail.  Sighing,
    Fraser said, "Well, I did warn you New Orleans was quite hot, even in
    September.  I offered to leave you with Stan or Mrs. Vecchio."
    	More barks.  "Well, you were the one who wanted to try gumbo, so I refuse
    to feel sorry for you."
    	The sight of a grown man holding a conversation with a wolf might have
    been considered odd anywhere else.  Considering the fact that an old
    lady wearing a Louis XIV ballgown and carrying a duck skated past Fraser,
    no one threw him a second glance. 	He sat on a bench, admiring the architecture
    of the St. Louis Cathedral.  Briefly, he considered the irony of a Canadian
    Mountie vacationing in New Orleans, but the truth was, he needed a change
    of scenery for a few weeks.  He and Ray Kowalski had spent the last four
    years searching for the Hand of Franklin.  At least, that's what they
    were searching for on the surface.  Somewhere in that frozen barreness,
    the quest for a missing legend turned into a search for their future.
    Stanley Raymond Kowalski had found what he was looking for and had gone
    to Alberta to hunt down Maggie MacKenzie with Fraser's blessing.  Short
    of Ray Vecchio, Benton couldn't think of a man more deserving of his
    sister's affections. 	Benton himself had known what he had wanted long
    before their oddyssey in the Yukon and had possessed and lost it on a
    snowy night of moonlight and howling wolves.  Sometimes his nostrils
    still picked up that wild, spicy fragrance which had enveloped him in
    all the beauty and sensuality of its owner.
    	And now he was on a vacation before assuming the duties of Inspector
    of the Canadian Consulate in Chicago.  While proud, he was also saddened
    that he would no longer be stopping crime around Chicago with Ray or
    Ray.  He would miss both men's unique senses of humor and streetwise
    cunning.  However, he knew he could always see them whenever he wished.
    In fact, after his week in New Orleans, he would be on a plane to Miami
    to see Ray Vecchio's new house.
    	"Hey!  Why you in m'seat?"
    	"Pardon?"  Ben looked up to see an old black man scowling down at him.
    "Pardon nothing.  I say why you in m'seat?  Ain't got no call to take
    Ol'Jake's seat!"
    	"Ah!  So sorry."  Benton pushed over to allow the old man to sit next
    to him.  Jake strummed a few scales on his bass.  Fraser listened with
    interest as the soulful strains of the blues came out.  "You're very
    good, sir."
    	His response was a gravelly chuckle.  "Sir?  Ain't from 'round here
    these parts, are ya?"
    	"No sir.  Canada.  I am a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."
    "Hehheh."  Jake started on "Blue Moon Bayou."  "So what dey call you?
    Dudley Do-Right?"
    	Fraser blushed slightly.  Although he was used to the nickname now,
    at times it still stung.  "No sir.  Benton Fraser."
    	"'Dat's a mountful, yeah."  Fingers moved over the strings to pluck
    out sweet, jazzy, soul.  His sharp eyes looked over Ben.  "You stick
    out like a sore thumb.  Being down here, 'dat's sayin' sumpin."
    	Benton wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or complimented.  Old Jake
    broke into the chorus of "Marie Laveau."  Tapping his feet to the rhythm
    of his guitar, Jake grinned at the younger man's staidness.  "So, what
    you here fo'?"
    	Not quite used to such inquisitive conversation (perhaps it was the
    way of this city), Ben tripped over his words.  "Ah-well, ah--that is-"
    	"Spit it out boy!  I'm gonna die 'fore you ever get 'round to it." 
    Resisting the urge to salute, he managed to say, "I'm here on vacation.
    To sort out a few things, as it were."
    	Jake chuckled, never breaking the rhythm of his fingers.  "You come
    to da right place, dat's fo' sure.  Dis city, it's got the hoodoo on
    it."
    	Dief whined in annoyance.  Here they were in New Orleans, a city which
    held more goodies than Alpha's friends Ray and Ray, and Alpha had the
    nerve to just sit there and chat with a human who had the audacity not
    to offer him so much as a beignet!  Dief tugged on Alpha's pant leg.
    
    	A wrinkled, old hand rumpled and scratched his ears.  The wolf growled
    in contentment.  On the other hand, this pampering wasn't so bad.
    	"Your dog, he's wantin' to git movin."
    	Benton scowled at Dief.  "Yes, well actually, he's a wolf, and he's
    just being rude.  He merely wants something to eat."
    	Waving his hand in dismissal, Jake smirked.  "Ah, dat's dogs.  I gotta
    play and your dog gotta eat."
    	Sensing the conversation was over, Benton waved goodbye to Jake and
    tugged at Dief as they started to walk around the French Quarter.  He
    was amazed at the contrasts of this city which was more European than
    American, from the homes of families tucked away on side streets to the
    sensuality and Bacchanal revery of the strip clubs and bars on Bourbon
    St.
    	He found himself strolling down Dauphine, going in and out of the various
    little galleries.  Even with all the books on great art his grandparents
    had provided, it was still a thrill to see beautiful pictures up close.
    Benton wandered into a little place called Le Petit Galerie, fascinated
    by the different types of paintings, from the antebellum scenes to that
    ridiculous little blue dog that was evidently all the rage down here.
    A young woman came up behind him.  "May I help you?"
    	Ben turned, almost tripping over Dief.  "Ah, no thank you.  I was just
    admiring your artwork.  You see, I'm just visiting this city.  Your jazz
    paintings are fascinating." 	She laughed, determined to put this handsome,
    skittish customer at ease.  No one was going to be uncomfortable in her
    shop.  Looking at him again, she grinned.  Too bad she was married. 
    Grabbing his arm, she started to show him around, speaking in the odd,
    slurred accent of New Orleans.  "Lawd.  They're not my paintings.  I'm
    just a dealer.  The jazz ones are pretty good.  They go for $750.  Let
    me show you some more."
    	She led his to the other room.  Benton's eyes took in everything.  "You
    have quite a collection.  I see you have a few street-"  His voice caught
    in his throat.  	It was a large painting, about the size of a large wall
    mirror.  The model was gracefully reclining on her side, her head turned
    to gaze out a window.  Her beautiful ivory nakedness was laid bare to
    human eyes, with only a blue scarf draped over the soft curve of her
    hip to cover her most intimate beauty.
    	The owner grinned at Benton's reaction.  "Beautiful, isn't it?"
    	He nodded dumbly.  His heart was racing, out of control---a runaway.
    She looked even more beautiful than his fertile imagination could ever
    have dreamed up.  Her long slender legs and softly curving hips which
    had set his heart ablaze; her softly rounded breasts.  He smiled as the
    memory of retrieving a hairpin came flooding back. 	Fraser inhaled sharply
    as his eyes travelled over her lovely body to that exquisite face, the
    long dark waves tumbling over her shoulders like a chocolate river. 
    Those crimson lips were as beautiful and soft as a Yukon snowfall.
    	Ah!  But those eyes!  If the artist had painted nothing but those eyes,
    Benton would have known her.  Those eyes were ultimate beauty; those
    smoky, dark orbs which crackled with anger, passion, and fire.  /Ah,
    Meg, you're still the loveliest woman to walk down the pike./
    	"Wh-where did you get this?"  She looked so young.
    	The art dealer ran a hand over the bottom of the frame fondly.  "In
    Paris.  I have a friend there and while I was visiting her, she introduced
    me to an artist named Jean-Paul Damiens."
    	Fraser briefly remembered hearing the name.  She continued.  "Anyway,
    I decided to buy some very good street scenes from him.  While I was
    doing that, he should us some of his earlier works.  I fell in love with
    this one."  She smiled.
    	Benton touched one beautifully painted leg.  "She is absolutely beautiful."
    /God, Meg, where are you now?/
    	"I know."  Laughing, she walked around him to straighten another frame.
    "Wish I looked that good naked.  He told us it was someone he used to
    know, a Canadian girl." 	He smiled at the thought of a young Meg Thatcher
    gleefully shocking her elders by posing nude.
    	Benton had no idea where she could be now.  He only wished for her safety
    and happiness.  He wanted this painting.  He needed it.  It was all he
    had left of Meg, along with his memories.  "How much do you want for
    it?"
    	The dealer frowned.  "Well, I hadn't planned on selling it-"
    	"Please!  That is, the model reminds me of someone I knew.  I have the
    money.  How much do you want?"  If it took begging to get this painting,
    he would break his pride and beg.
    	A few minutes of uncomfortable silence passed.  The woman sighed.  From
    her few minutes of talking with this quiet guy, she got the feeling that
    he did not ask for much. She also figured the model reminded him of an
    ex-lover who had broken his heart.  What the hell?  Who was she to deny
    someone's request?  She had had a print made of it anyway. 	Benton could
    see she was not going to bend.  He didn't blame her.  Dejectedly, he
    motioned to Dief.  "Thank you anyway.  I'll be going-"
    	"Wait!"  She held up her hand.  "$1000.  And that's a bargain."  Seeing
    a beautiful smile spread across his boy-like face made her day.  Everybody's
    wishes should be so simple. 	Benton pulled out his traveller's cheques.
    "No.  I'll pay you $1500.  It's worth every penny."
    	After getting over her surprise, she laughed uproariously.  "Offering
    to pay me more?  That's a first!  What are you, Canadian?"
    	Handing her the check, Fraser grinned, feeling happier than he had in
    a long time. At least he had this small reminder of Meg, however petty
    it might seem.  	"What is the name of the painting."
    	Her brow creased in concentration.  "Let me think.  He said he named
    it after her. Mary...Marie--"
    	"Margaret?"
    	Her eyes widened in surprise.  "That's it.  'Marguerite.'  How did you
    know." 	His smile was gentle.  "Lucky guess I suppose.  She looks like
    a Margaret."  	Depositing his check in the cash register, she asked,
    "Where do you want it sent?" 
    
    					****
    
    	Ben looked around his new apartment with pride.  It was simple, yet
    not quite as spartan as his Racine St. flat had been.  He personally
    felt he could have continued living in his office, but Ray and Ray had
    quite vehemently insisted that an RCMP inspector needed a decent place
    to live.  After much arguing between the three friends, they had finally
    settled on this one-bedroom apartment.  Before, he had felt rather foolish
    paying rent when he was quite comfortable in his office.  Now he was
    grateful for his two friends' insistence.  The light from the fireplace
    lit up the portrait of a young woman now sitting above the mantle.  Her
    eyes were turned toward the painting's sunlight, lost in hopes and dreams.
    Benton smiled as he put out the fire.  "Sleep well love, wherever you
    are tonight. Good night Meg."
    
    					****
    
    	Her screams echoed in the room and the whip came down hard across her
    back.  Meg bit back tears.  Someone had betrayed her and she would die
    alone, abandoned, and forgotten. She would die doing the right thing
    in a wrong world.  She had no regrets, except perhaps one.  The perfect
    ivory flesh on her back was ripped to shreds as dark crimson stripes
    wove patterns of anguish on her body.  Meg prayed the Catholic prayers
    from her childhood, hoping for death with honor.  She saw the rich crimson
    flowing on her rope-lacerated hands and remembered.  She managed to smile.
    "Red suits me."
    	The world went dark.  
    
    


End file.
